


Practice Makes Perfect

by quartetship



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - High School, Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Practice Kissing, Sexual Content, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 13:51:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5007154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quartetship/pseuds/quartetship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Thankfully, Marco seemed to be on the same page, as always.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practice Makes Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> Written on commission for the lovely [greystree](greystree.tumblr.com) \- Hope it was worth the wait, my friend! 
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: This fic is set throughout the course of the boys' high school years, but for propriety's sake, I've set the major sexual encounter after they've turned eighteen. This fic also contains alcohol use, drunkenness, and some poor decision-making, so read carefully and mind those warnings!
> 
> But as always, I fix what I break; stick around for the happy ending, friends! 
> 
> Enjoy!  
> \--

To the best of his memory, Marco Bodt was the first real friend Jean Kirschtein ever had. He was the first person that Jean shared secrets with, the first friend with which he ever spent the night, and the first friend he ever argued and made up with. Jean learned most of what he knew about friendship – and much that he knew about life – from Marco.

They were as close as any two people could be.

They had been friends since they were too small for school desks, and as friends did, they had talked about everything. Nothing was awkward between the two of them. At least, nothing had been, up until a certain point.

That point was one they encountered at the age of thirteen, just over the first hurdles of adolescence.

“Marco, have you ever made out with anybody?”

Jean asked the question with his eyes still glued to the television screen in front of them, both of them siting in the floor of his bedroom, video game controllers in their hands. There was a moment of pause, and then a simple, bashful answer from Marco.

“No. Have you?”

“Nah,” Jean said with a casual tilt of his head, “Never met a chick I liked that much.” It wasn't entirely true, but it was Jean’s story, all the same. He grinned, finally looking Marco in the eye. “Still, I kinda worry I'll be shitty at it when I finally get around to it.”

“I'm sure it just takes practice.” Marco said, looking down at the controller in his hand. He flicked at the joystick, twisting his mouth to one side. Jean scoffed a laugh.

“Makin’ out is not exactly something you can just study up on, dude. Practicing with the person you wanna make out with defeats the whole purpose.”

“Not necessarily,” Marco contended. “But, I mean… We could practice. On each other, I mean. If you wanted.”

“We – like you and me?” Jean looked back at him, wide-eyed. Marco shrugged, the tips of his ears going slightly pink.

“Well, yeah. I mean, that way you don't have to waste your practice on someone you really want to kiss. And I'll get to practice, too. Right?” His eyes never met Jean’s as he explained his reasoning, and afterward, he added a quiet tag-on; “I mean, it's not like anyone would know, if we didn't tell ‘em, y’know?”

For a moment, there was heavy silence, and Jean struggled to come up with a reason to say no. But when he couldn't find one, his head bobbed slightly of its own accord, and he found himself nodding, agreeing with Marco. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess that's true. We could… We can do that, yeah.”

Marco looked back up at Jean suddenly, eyes widening in momentary disbelief, but then he was smiling, and Jean couldn't look at him for too long without feeling a weird sweatiness everywhere from his palms to the back of his neck. He rubbed those palms hard on the rough fabric of his jeans and rolled his eyes, laughing off the way Marco suddenly seemed a lot closer to him than he had been a few seconds before. There was nothing to feel strange about; it was just _Marco,_ for god’s sake.

Once the elephant in the room had shrunk to a small enough size to allow them both to breathe again, they were only left with the task of initiating things for the first time. For two teenagers who'd never kissed anyone in their entire lives outside of their own families, it was more intimidating than either of them were willing to let on. Determined not to be the one afraid to act, Jean finally worked up the courage to move first, laughing and shrugging, casual and dismissive as he leaned in toward his best friend.

It was terrible, at first. Absolutely _awful._ Jean was admittedly horrible at nearly _every_ aspect of it, and Marco’s metal braces slid uncomfortably against his fumbling lips. But something about it was _just_ good enough to keep them trying; even the first time they got their tongues involved, and their teeth clacked together so hard that Jean nearly bit Marco’s lip off, it was still kind of nice. In a theoretical kind of way.

So they kept trying, because the only way to get better was to practice.

\--

As with anything, it improved with time. _They_ improved; their technique was better, but it was also a hell of a lot more enjoyable. Practicing got easier as kissing began to come more naturally to them both, and though they never said it aloud, the small sounds of pleasure that had begun to work their way in between stuttered breaths while lips and tongues worked past one another were less about rehearsing and more about being genuinely lost in the moment, together.

Jean began to look forward to their practice sessions, looking for ways to fit them in, whenever and wherever he could. As junior high rolled into high school, the weekly grind of class and homework presented them with more than enough opportunities to do just that, in locker rooms after gym class or at one another’s house, tucked away in a bedroom under the guise of studying together. Anywhere, any time that Jean could find, he liked to pass it with Marco’s lips on his.

Pleasantly, Marco seemed to have no objections.

His lack of protest was a trend that Jean began to count on. If he was worried that Marco didn't find their practice sessions as addictive as he did, Jean lost his grip on any lingering doubts when things escalated one evening during their sophomore year, while they were ‘watching movies’ in his room.

It began as it always did, lazy kisses that were getting almost _too_ easy to fall into. Then it turned into soft, tender touches, hands sliding over shoulders and down sides as they often did. It was the predictable slide down a slope that had become commonplace for them by then, but that night, their usual slow roll was a snowball, building momentum as it grew to something bigger than the both of them. Jean’s roaming hands found places to rest, one wiggling into the back pocket of Marco’s jeans to palm at the swell of his ass, and the other tracing the sharp angle of Marco’s hip, before stopping to cup the obvious tightness that Marco’s erection was making in the catch of his pants. Marco gasped; he did not, however, pull away, and that felt like an invitation that Jean was all too eager to accept.

He could hardly help himself. Marco had gotten a lot easier to kiss since his braces had come off a few weeks before that, a lot easier to get lost with in that rush of hormone-fueled adrenaline.

He'd also gotten a lot _hotter._

But Jean didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to think at all; thinking only took him to strange places that he was certain his mind wasn't ready to linger in. In that moment, he only wanted to _feel,_ wanted to touch Marco, wanted Marco to touch him.

Thankfully, Marco seemed to be on the same page, as always.

With Jean’s hand frozen on him, he rolled his hips upward, biting his lip to button up a shivering little sigh that made Jean’s pulse pound in his ears. One hand coming to clasp the back of Jean’s neck, the other trailed down Jean’s side, thumbing tentatively – almost shyly – at the waistband of Jean’s pants before dropping to mirror the way Jean was touching him, palming at the growing hardness behind Jean’s zipper. Marco’s eyes were wide, all hunger and hormones and something Jean couldn't identify, but it almost looked like fear. Even as he kneaded his hand against the stretched denim at the front of Jean’s pants, he chewed on his lip, thoughtful.

_Thinking._ It was exactly what Jean didn't want to be doing, in that moment, and if Marco did it too long he might want to _talk._ Jean swallowed to try and steady his wavering breath as Marco’s thumb teased at his zipper, lunging forward to capture his mouth in a rough, biting, urgent kiss that he hoped screamed his consent as loudly as the words he didn't want to say ever could have.

But it didn't seem to be enough for Marco. He let Jean kiss him, breathing a soft whine through his nose before pulling back to sit on his heels. Still, his hand lingered where it was, in Jean’s lap.

“Wait, hang on. What're we… I mean – is this _okay?”_ He glanced down at where his hand lay, then back up at Jean. Jean nodded.

“Yeah, yeah,” he insisted, admittedly too dizzy at the thought of another person touching him that way to think of anything other than getting more. “It's fine. I… I don't care if you don't.”

Marco’s eyes lingered on Jean’s a moment longer, but then his palm rolled firmly against the hardness pressing back against Jean’s loosened zipper, and Jean gasped his approval.

Rocking his hips forward, Jean shifted to allow Marco to unzip and tug away his jeans, trying not to be embarrassed by how enthusiastically his cock sprang forward to tent his boxers. But Marco didn't laugh at him. He swallowed audibly, staring at Jean’s arousal for a long moment before wrapping his hand around it, teasing him through the thin fabric of his shorts.

Jean hummed, making every effort not to fuck Marco’s hand with the desperation he already felt. He hadn't even realized how turned on he was, until he felt another person's fingers – _Marco’s_ fingers – wrapped around him, stroking him better than he'd ever done for himself.

When Marco looked back at him, wordlessly seeking permission before pulling down his boxers as well, Jean nodded, leaning in for a kiss for lack of any more sensible response.

With the surprisingly artful work of Marco’s wrist, it wasn't long before Jean was nearing the edge, body trembling as his breath came quicker and his heart slammed harder in his chest. Marco’s hand felt so amazing, sliding as it was through the thin smearing of precome that was betraying just how close Jean was to his release. Having never felt someone else’s touch, he found himself glad it was Marco hovering in front of him, Marco’s hand working him into a heated frenzy, Marco’s beautiful eyes, dark with lust that he knew was mirrored in his own as they looked at each other one last time before Jean’s eyes screwed shut and he came undone.

“M-Marco, ahhh!” It was all he could manage in the way of a warning before coming across Marco’s clenched hand. Marco didn't still his fingers until Jean had ridden out the last rippling wave of his pleasure, shuddering as he slumped against Marco’s shoulder, embarrassed that he hadn't lasted more than a few minutes – or even long enough to warn Marco, first.

“Sorry, I tried to--”

“It's okay, it's fine.” Marco assured him, maybe a little _too_ happily. He gingerly toweled himself off with a nearby discarded gym towel, thankfully not bothering to ask Jean how dirty it was, or how long it had been there. He was turning back to face him, words on the tip on his tongue when he noticed Jean’s smirk, coming closer as Jean crawled toward him to pin him beneath him on the bed.  “W-what are you--”

“Your turn.” Jean grinned, and seized Marco’s lips in a fierce kiss before he could protest that Jean didn't owe it to him.

Being practice partners and best friends meant fair was fair, and as good as Marco had given it to him, Jean took a small sense of pride in thinking he might be able to do him one better. When Marco moaned into his mouth a moment later, he knew he was on the right track to do just that. When he came _all over_ Jean’s wrist and arm just minutes after that, Jean couldn't hold back from grinning at the way Marco’s whole body shook from his orgasm.

Plucking the gym towel carefully from the floor and taking his turn to clean up, Jean heard Marco sink back down onto the bed, his breathing erratic as he chuckled. Jean threw the towel into the laundry basket and flopped down beside him, content. Fair was fair, and they were both taken care of.

A good day of practice, if he could say so, himself.

Marco turned to look at him, eyes literally _sparkling,_ chest still heaving. “That was actually… really great.”

Jean nodded. “Not bad.”

“First time I've ever done that with anyone else. I mean, I've obviously done it myself, but it's a lot better with someone else. Or maybe it's just because it's you, I don’t know.” Marco looked like he had every intention to keep talking. The smile on his face was absolutely gorgeous, but something about how wide and genuine it was made Jean a little uncomfortable.

“Dude, calm down,” he chuckled, shaking his head, “It was just a hand job.”

The crack in Marco’s smile was almost audible, it happened so abruptly. He looked back at Jean in momentary confusion, but then bit his lips together and nodded. “I… Yeah, you're right.” Scrubbing a hand over his face, he smiled, but it was tight, forced. “Sorry.”

A pang of guilt jabbed Jean deep in his gut. “You, uh… You okay?” He sat up, but Marco was already up and buttoning his pants. He nodded back at Jean quickly.

“Yeah, I'm just gonna go. Probably should've been home a while ago.”

Jean wanted to protest, but he wasn't even sure where to start. Instead, he nodded in return. “Well, alright. See ya.”

Marco collected his things in silence, never once looking back at Jean, even as he walked out the door of his bedroom. That evening, Marco didn't text him. He didn't call him. He wasn't online.

That night, Jean didn't sleep well.

\--

The next morning, Jean wondered if Marco would be at school, but when he saw him standing in front of his open locker, a wave of relief swept over him. Things were totally normal, he told himself. Everything was just like it had been the day before.

But he knew that wasn't true the moment Marco turned around and caught sight of him.

“Hey.” Jean ventured, biting his lips together hard right afterward, as if the word burnt on the way out. Marco eyed him for a moment, his jaw hard set.

“Hi.”

Jean absently shuffled his feet. “You, uh… You busy after school today?”

“Homework.” Marco said simply, too quickly to have actually given the question any thought. “Why?”

“Just wondered if you'd have time to stop by for a bit.” Jean shrugged, hyper aware of Marco’s gaze fixed on him as he averted his eyes for a moment, swallowing hard. After a moment of tense silence, Marco huffed a sigh.

“Guess I can.” He replied. “Can't stay long, though.”

“That's fine.” Jean nodded, half amazed he'd gotten Marco to agree, half confused as to why things had come to _that_ between them in the course of only twenty four hours. Still, he'd won; Marco agreed to come over, and they could talk it out, and fix whatever was wrong, and things would be back to normal by nightfall. He hoped. “See you then.”

\--

Marco was true to his word, and Jean silently thanked the universe for his friend’s integrity as he heard Marco’s car door slam outside. It would still be a few hours before Jean’s parents were home, and he hoped it would be plenty of time to bury the hatchet with Marco so he wouldn't be left answering his mother’s awkward questions about whether or not they were arguing. Marco wasn't a topic he really wanted to discuss with anyone else, let alone his parents.

But there were plenty of topics he knew he should probably discuss with Marco.

A few minutes after letting him in the front door, Jean sat silent across from Marco in his bedroom floor, biting his lips as he wondered how to crack the wall of quiet he'd somehow helped to build. It wasn't his strong suit, talking about feelings, especially injured ones, but he knew he needed to. If for no other reason than to kill the seeds of drama that seemed to be trying to take root.

“So, uh. Sorry about being a dick yesterday.” It was all Jean could think to say, but it was everything that needed said, at least in his mind. He rocked in place, trying to breeze through his apology as quickly as possible. “I know I made shit awkward, and that was my bad. Hope you still wanna like… hang out, and stuff.”

He focused on his feet, then, looking at the way the bottoms of them pressed flush together as he pulled his folded legs closer to himself. Anything, to keep from looking Marco in the eye. He could already feel his face on fire in his embarrassment, and Marco tended to make that worse. But a moment later, he felt a hand on his knee, and he didn't need to look anywhere for his face to go up in flames.

“It’s fine,” Marco said quietly, though his hand squeezed a little, and Jean was fairly certain all was not forgotten. “Just didn't want you to think.. I dunno. Didn't want yesterday to scare you off, I guess.”

Jean laughed before he could stop himself, and Marco jerked his hand back. But Jean caught it on reflex, grabbing and holding it, more to capture his attention, than anything.

“You kiddin’?” Jean smirked, though his cheeks were still burning. “That was the best I've felt getting’ off in a long ass time – maybe ever.” He felt like an idiot for admitting it aloud, but as soon as he did, Marco’s face lit up in a way that made Jean want to keep talking forever.

“Yeah?” Marco grinned. Jean nodded, punching Marco lightly in the arm, the same way he'd done since they were children.

“Yeah. You're, uh. You're good at what you do.”

Marco chuckled, his own face slightly pink, though relief was evident in his features. “You too, I have to admit.”

Jean wasn't sure how to react; being told he was good at giving someone else a hand job wasn't something he'd ever counted on being proud of, or even hearing, if he was honest with himself. But it made something swell in his chest, a bright, hot feeling that surged straight to his head – and to his dick. Acting on impulse, he leaned forward, one hand in Marco’s lap as the other clasped the back of his neck, pulling him in for a nipping, playful kiss.

Things weren't playful for long, though.

Whatever was making Jean’s face feel so hot seemed to catch fire and spread to the rest of him, the smoke from the flames fogging his mind, and maybe Marco’s, too. In a matter of seconds, Marco was on his back, Jean’s hands working open the catch of his pants as his fingers sought out the erection that was already straining against the boxers beneath. Marco threw an arm over his mouth as it fell open, muffling a cracked moan of Jean’s name as Jean wrapped those fingers around his length, wasting no time in stroking him to a shaking, breathless orgasm.

Jean sat back on his heels, looking down at Marco proudly as he straddled him, reveling in the way Marco panted through mindless praises that mixed perfectly with Jean’s name as he came down from his high. He reached up to pull Jean down for another kiss, slow and gentle and almost too tender for Jean’s comfort. But a moment later, he flipped them roughly, and Jean groaned in excitement at the sudden pressure of Marco sitting on his hips.

Quick to return Jean’s favor, Marco wiggled his way down Jean’s legs, eyes wide and hungry as he pulled Jean’s pants and underwear out of the way. After only a few firm strokes though, his hand stilled, and he looked down at Jean’s hardness, then back up to his face, as if contemplating something. Before Jean could ask a question, Marco did.

“Can I use my mouth on you?”

Wordless with shock, Jean could only nod, his hips jerking upward of their own accord at the thought. Thinking of how amazing it had been to come across Marco’s fingers, he could scarcely imagine how good it would be to have his friend’s kiss-swollen lips wrapped around him. Luckily, he didn't have to imagine; Marco licked those lips once, and then took Jean’s permission and ran with it.

It was incredible, like nothing Jean had ever felt. He'd gotten himself off with lube before, but this was something else entirely. This was hot and wet and so, so _good,_ every tentative swirl of Marco’s tongue taking him to new heights of pleasure. He knew it was probably sloppy, in comparison to what he could do with some practice, and that thought had him whimpering behind his bitten fingers, trying desperately not to lose it even as Marco brought him closer and closer to the edge.

He’d had every intention of talking to Marco that day; he'd had no idea that he'd be doing so in whines and whispers.

Murmuring Marco’s name in the same breath as a shivering moan, Jean came hard, shaking fingers tangled in soft, dark hair. Feeling Marco swallow around him, his body tensed a few times more, each jolt sending him higher into a starlit atmosphere that he never wanted to descend from. He swallowed, trying to right his breathing, a losing battle as a blissful grin split his face.

It was a feeling he could get _very_ used to.

Not a moment later, he was hauling Marco up from where he was bent, bringing them face to face for a lazy smashing of lips and wrapping of arms. But it lasted only a moment. Jean hadn't even steadied his breath before he was abandoned on the bed.

Marco threw his legs over the side and immediately reached for his pants as he stood. “Guess I should probably get going.”

With a momentary decision of ‘why the hell not?’, Jean reached up after him and grabbed Marco by the band of his boxers, grinning lazily when Marco turned around to see why he'd been seized. With an equally languid extension of his other arm, Jean reached out to grab hold of Marco’s hips, pulling him back down onto the bed beside him before tossing his entire upper body heavily across Marco’s chest. Marco huffed a laugh, wheezing slightly as he wriggled beneath Jean, searching for a comfortable position.

“Thought you had to get going?” Jean smirked, nosing against Marco’s cheek.

“You've got me pinned, you brick.” Marco huffed, but he was smiling, ever wider. “Besides, I figure I can stay a little bit longer.”

It was insanely sappy, ridiculously comfortable; listening to Marco’s steadying breath and slowing heartbeat just felt _right._

That, Jean could also get used to.

\--

Things continued that way, escalating at a steady clip from there, and it was fine for a while. They kept up their practicing for months that turned into years, or at least Jean told himself that was what was going on. He made strident efforts to ignore the way practicing made him feel about Marco.

But even in the sanctity of his own mind, Jean couldn't just pretend that the two of them didn't have _something_ going on. Any time they were together, their lips were almost always sliding over one another’s, or over skin that had yet to be marked up. Whenever they weren't within view of other people, they were usually in each other’s laps, Marco straddling Jean’s hips in his computer chair, or Jean with his legs slung over Marco’s on his bed, grinding against him as Marco muffled his moans into Jean’s shoulder.

They definitely had something, together, even if it was just for the time being.

If it were just for the sake of getting off, maybe he could excuse it, Jean thought. Maybe if there were _any_ logical reason for the fact that he found himself dreaming – day and night, alike – of Marco’s hands not only on him, but intertwined gently with his, he would feel a little bit better about telling himself it was all in the name of practice. He wanted it to be purely physical, a means to an end. But Marco kissed him when he walked through the door to his room, kissed him before either of them left when they hung out, kissed him, kissed him, _kissed him,_ soft and sweet and so full of feeling that Jean could still taste the tingle of it on his lips hours after they parted ways.

They were extremely physical, but not exclusively so. It was about more than that, about more than Jean was willing to admit to. It warranted a name, but giving it one was still too terrifying for Jean to even consider.

So things continued as they were, unnamed and unknown by anyone other than he and Marco.

\--

Practice sessions were barely even a thought for Jean, after a few years. He had no time for those kind of thoughts, when most of his time was consumed with how he could find more of it to spend with Marco. There was a feeling of freshness between them, an addictive newness despite having known each other for ages. Jean knew it had everything to do with the way things had changed between them, and he was alright with that. As long as they were the only ones that knew.

Marco seemed alright with things, too. Maybe even more so than Jean, he sought out ways for them to spend time together, things to do that nearly always led to their ‘practice sessions’, but no longer revolved around them. Anyone else might have called them dates, but for Jean and Marco, they had no such name.

They were just hanging out. Making out. Slowly falling into something deeper than the friendship they had shared for so long.

But they definitely weren't dating, and if anyone had bothered asking Jean about the two of them rather than simply whispering in the school hallways, he would have made certain to give them such an answer.

When Marco's parents planned a trip out of town for a weekend in the mountains, he and Jean made plans to spend that time together. It wasn't a date, of course, so their parents thought nothing of it. It was just a weekend of movies, cheap pizza, and hours and hours of time together, like they'd always had.

Including time in the creaking old treehouse in Marco’s family’s giant, ancient oak tree.

It was a place that held innumerable memories, for both of them. They had played there as children, spent nights there talking, as pre-teenagers, and found themselves back there just past their eighteenth birthdays, laughing as the boards whined beneath their weight, heavier than they'd ever been, crawling through its small, open door. With fireflies flitting past the small, diamond shaped windows of the wooden walls, Marco lit two of the lamps he'd lugged up along with them, bathing the whole of the single room in warm light. Jean couldn't help noticing how breathtaking Marco looked in that light, but he decided against saying so, aloud.

“You alright?” Marco asked, once they’d settled beside each other on a doubled-over blanket on the treehouse floor. He looked up at Jean, who was propped up on one folded arm, hand aimlessly trailing over Marco’s hip and leg.

“Me?” Jean snorted, though the usual haughtiness in his voice was distant, then. “I feel like I should be the one asking _you_ that, considering what I’ma about to do to you in your old clubhouse.”

“I'm fine.” Marco grinned. “You, on the other hand? You talk a good game, but you _look_ like you're about to throw up.”

“Do not, asshole!” Jean poked Marco hard in the side, only prompting him to roll away laughing. Jean huffed. “M’just nervous, is all.” At that quiet confession, Marco wriggled back over to lie beside him again, sympathy on his face. It only made the lump in Jean’s throat worse. “Sorry I've never done this before.”

“You know I haven't, either.” Marco reminded him. “We’ll figure it out, okay? It’ll be good.”

“Hope so.” Jean nipped at the swell of his own bottom lip for a moment, then bent low to press his to Marco’s. They lay there, kissing away the tension in each other’s muscles, and the wind back into each other's sails. When Jean pulled back to look at Marco again, it was with a nervous excitement, and a little more confidence, knowing Marco believed in him. “Just… Tell me if anything hurts, alright?”

“I will, I will. And I'll tell you when it's good, too.” With that, Marco crawled atop Jean for a few more heady, dizzying kisses, before letting Jean roll them over and slide them both out of their pants. The cool evening air threatened to chill them both, but with only the tiny windows for a draft and each other to stay warm beside, neither of them paid it much mind.

Not when far more exciting things were demanding their full attention.

Between them, atop the outspread blanket, was a small grocery bag. Jean dug through it, eyebrows waggling as he pulled a brand new bottle of lubricant from inside it. Marco snorted a laugh, some of the anxiety evident on his face softening at the edges. Jean grinned. He made a show of peeling Marco’s boxers down and away, stopping to give Marco’s hardening cock a few lazy strokes and a languid swipe of his tongue before gently parting Marco’s legs, and scooting between them.

"Just gonna do one at first, alright?" Jean made sure Marco could see what he was doing, carefully slicking one of his fingers with lubricant, running it between his other fingers to test the way it slid against his skin. When he deemed it ready to use, he spread Marco’s legs wider, caressing his hip with his other hand as he slid his slicked finger in slow circles around Marco’s entrance. He slid the first finger inside, slow and careful, and focused on Marco’s every reaction.

“This okay?”

Marco nodded slowly, still adjusting to the feeling. “Mhm. Just take it slow, yeah?”

“Obviously.” Jean huffed, but only because he didn't need to be reminded. He handled Marco like he was made of something finer than lace, gently touching and teasing, easing his finger into him a fraction of an inch at a time. Marco circled his hips against Jean’s hand, working down onto him slowly, hissing and humming at the feeling of Jean moving inside of him. Jean watched, intoxicated by the sights and sounds of Marco whimpering beneath him.

“Fuck, Marco – so tight. Think you can take another?”

For a moment it seemed that Marco might shake his head, tell Jean it wasn't okay, and call the whole thing off. And that would've been fine. But when he opened his eyes again, there was a look in them of determination, a glint of downright _need_ that Jean might have been the only person ever to see. He bit his lip, slowly releasing it from between his teeth in a way that made Jean desperate to run his own teeth across it, to kiss that teasing little mouth as Marco looked back at him with narrowed eyes and whispered low, “Try me.”

The second finger wasn’t nearly as slow a slide as the first, though Jean was careful, still. He circled them gently, spreading and twisting them as he worked Marco open. Kneading the muscles of Marco’s gorgeous ass, Jean felt some of the resistance melt away, as Marco’s body became more and more eager to accept whatever Jean would give. Marco keened as Jean quickened his movements, sliding his fingers deeper with every thrust.

He grinned smugly at the way Marco was already losing himself. “S’at good? You like that?”

“Nnnn, shut up, Jean, don't make fun of me!” Marco scowled up at him, pouting. Jean shook his head, though he couldn't help laughing.

“M’not makin’ fun of anything, you look amazing, right now.” He ran a hand gently up one side of Marco’s hips, watching in wonder at the way Marco’s face changed every time he moved his fingers, the way pleasure played across his features. “You look like you feel so good, takin’ my fingers. Gonna give you one more, okay?”

Jean slipped a third finger in alongside the others, and Marco tensed around him for all of a second before relaxing again, moaning obscenely and clutching the blanket beneath him, mouth hanging open as he breathed Jean’s name like a swear. Jean swallowed hard, willing himself not to let those beautiful sounds go to his head – or his dick – too quickly.

“You keep makin’ those noises and I'm gonna come, Marco.”

“Likewise.” Marco nodded, panting. Jean looked around for the small bag they’d tossed aside, knowing a box of condoms was still inside it. Once he snatched the handle of the bag, he looked back down at Marco, hand returning to gently rub at his slick entrance.

“Think you're ready?” He asked, pausing for a moment in genuine concern. Marco nodded again, pushing back against Jean’s fingers, a glance thrown over his shoulder as he noticed Jean pulling one of the shiny, silver wrappers from the newly opened box.

“Yes, I'm ready, I'm ready Jean, _please.”_

Jean grinned, then, sitting back further on his heels, taking his hand away and taking his time as he opened and checked the condom under Marco’s intense gaze. “Could get used to makin' you beg for shit.”

Marco groaned, lifting his hips and casting an irritated glare in Jean’s direction. “Thought you wanted to get laid, tonight.”

Rolling his eyes, Jean nodded, wordlessly agreeing to cease his teasing. He slicked himself with another small smear of lube before rolling the condom on, glancing back up at Marco to catch him watching, obviously anxious. After one last generous coating of lubricant across the head of his sheathed cock, Jean reached out to lace his fingers with Marco’s, laughing quietly when Marco grimaced at the feeling of slickness between them. Jean leaned over him and stole his complaints with a kiss, relaxing them both, just a little.

Forehead pressed against Marco’s, Jean dropped one more quick kiss to the tip of Marco’s nose, with whispered reassurance. “Slow. I promise.”

Knowing Marco’s eyes were fixed on him as he moved, Jean lined their hips up carefully, lifting Marco’s legs to loop gently around his waist. Holding himself steady, he let his own weight do most of the work, slowly sinking into Marco’s heat, arm shaking as he tried to move as little as possible. When he'd nearly bottomed out, Marco gasped, a breathy, shuddering noise as his eyes fluttered closed, head rolling back to hit the mound of blanket behind it. Jean groaned, desperately grasping at his already threadbare sense of control.

_“God,_ you feel so good, Marco. So damn tight, holy shit – Is it good for you? Are you okay?”

“I'm fine, I'm fine, it's…” Marco made a conscious effort to relax as Jean shifted slightly inside of him, both of them moaning quietly at the feeling. “It's a lot, but.. It's good. Getting better.”

Jean waited out the hitch in his breath, waited until he could find words to murmur in response. “Just tell me if it stops being good.”

He continued to move slowly at first, nothing more than a gentle, rhythmic roll of his hips, as Marco circled his own in answer. They sighed in unison as they swayed together, finding a steady pace they were both able to handle after a few moments of trying. When Marco squeezed his hand and gave Jean a breathless plea for more, Jean obliged, nearly crossing Marco’s eyes when he thrust a little harder, a little deeper, and apparently right where Marco needed it.

“Jean, _nghhh fuck!”_

“That good, huh?” Jean smirked, but Marco was too far gone to admonish him for teasing.

“Really good, oh my _god,_ wanna do this _every day.”_

Scarcely able to think of a convincing argument against that, Jean bent low to press a kiss to Marco’s neck, then his jaw, then his ear as he whispered, “We’ll see.”

Finally learning what Marco could take, Jean gave him just that, setting a rhythm that left them both gasping, hitting the spot that made Marco moan for him again and again. He had always known sex would be amazing, and ever since he'd realized the first time he had sex it would probably be with Marco, he'd figured that would make things even better. But he could have never pictured the way he felt, then, his entire body a thing on fire, molten where it met Marco’s, burning him alive with pleasure that he knew he couldn't help but get addicted to.

“You look so good, Marco, so fucking good.” Jean raked his nails down Marco’s thighs and back up, marking his skin possessively. “So hard to hold back, baby, you’re making it so damned hard, _fuck!”_

He hadn't meant for the pet name to fall so freely from his lips, but there wasn't enough room in his brain to even consider it a mistake when Marco looked so gorgeous beneath him, sounded so incredible pleading for more of him, and felt so amazing, wrapped hot and tight around him. The word only seemed to make Marco moan louder, and that was something Jean couldn't bring himself to regret. He growled it again, grabbing handfuls of Marco’s perfect ass as he did, and Marco whined beautifully against his shoulder, repeating it, himself.

“Jean, _baby,_ I’m so full of you, can't get enough, don't stop, please…”

“Marco, this is… This is amazing, _you're_ amazing, I fucking _love_ it, I love…” Head spinning from the high he was on, Jean let himself go, let himself feel, let himself speak. “I love _you._ Love you, Marco, _love you, I love you, I love you.”_

Body trembling in response to every whisper of those words, Marco repeated them, clinging to Jean’s shoulders as his voice became higher and tighter. “I l-love you, Jean.” 

Words were never something that affected Jean strongly; he had never found himself moved by a turn of phrase, no matter what the context. But Marco breathing _those_ words like a promise alongside his name unhinged something within him, and he felt as though his heart would leap from its place in his chest and fill the room to bursting. He let his head fall forward onto Marco’s shoulder as his arms quaked, threatening to give way as he lost control. Reaching down between them in an effort not to leave Marco behind, he wrapped fingers around Marco’s hard, dripping cock and pumped messily, no semblance of rhythm against his erratic thrusts.

But it was enough. Marco dug fingers into Jean’s shoulders and bit the join of Jean’s collarbone and neck, barely muffling a cracked and desperate scream as he tensed, coming in wild jolts that Jean felt as deeply as he did. He tightened around Jean’s cock in waves of impossibly perfect pleasure, pulling Jean over the edge with him, Marco scrambling to hold him as Jean’s arms finally gave out.

Quivering for a few moments afterward, Jean held tightly to Marco, their arms and legs wound together in a way that made what they had just finished doing feel like a lot more than just sex. He hadn't expected to need time to recover, but Marco didn't seem fazed, and if anything, seemed to need the same thing, need the weight of Jean’s arms around him as his racing heart and mind caught up with his blissed out body, processing just how good it felt to exist in a perfect moment, shared between them.

And that's what it was, even with both of them still covered in a sticky, drying mess that would no doubt be an absolute _bitch_ to clean up in a few minutes time. Even then, it was a perfect moment.

Chests still slowing their heaving, they lay together on the worn, wooden floor of the treehouse that now held yet another memory that was theirs, alone, looking at the stars as they spilled their light in through the small window opening. Hand in hand, they breathed as one, occasionally pointing at moths or fireflies as they buzzed by, wordless as they smiled toward the sky. It was everything Jean had never thought to hope for.

The warmth of Marco’s fingers laced with his weighing pleasantly heavy on his senses, Jean pushed every practical thought from his mind, and allowed himself to enjoy the moment.

\--

‘Enjoy the moment’ became a mantra that Jean repeated in his mind, every time he was with Marco. It wasn't hard; Marco made every moment that passed while they lingered in one another’s presence enjoyable. Things were perfect, just the way they were.

At least in Jean’s opinion.

There was always a question of what was and wasn't appropriate, that lay just beneath the surface of what the two of them seemed willing to discuss, aloud. The way they touched and held and clung to each other in private was out of the question in public, but as practice and practicality began to bleed into emotional territory, some things were cast in shades of grey that were harder to decide on. Was it okay to look, to smile, to stare, the way they caught themselves doing across classrooms and lunch tables? Was it acceptable to hover beside lockers, speaking in hushed voices about what they hoped they'd get the chance to do together, later, once so many eyes weren't on them? Jean wasn't sure.

He knew Marco wasn't either, but a large part of him hoped it would never be an uncertainty pressing enough to arise as a topic of conversation between them. But he'd known Marco for a long time, even before those questions began to plague him. And he should've known him well enough to realize he was hoping for far too much.

“I've been thinking,” Marco murmured one afternoon, as they were lying together on Jean’s bed, still catching their breath from being caught up in each other. He looked at Jean expectantly.

“Yeah?” Jean asked, mentally absent as he trailed a hand over Marco’s named back. “What about?”

“I think I wanna come out.”

Jean quirked an eyebrow. “Come out?”

Marco nodded. “Like I think I want people to know. About me. About us.”

“People? What people?”

“My family, I guess. My friends, the people at school.” He shrugged, rolling over onto his back to look up at the ceiling, eyes wide and hopeful. “Everyone. I wanna be out, Jean. I want people to know that we’re together.”

“I, uh…” Jean pursed his lips, chewing on his tongue for a moment as he tried to think of how to politely express his absolute _panic_ at Marco’s suggestion. “I'm not sure that's somethin’ I wanna do.”

Marco’s face fell. “Why not, though?”

“I dunno, Marco! It's just not… It's nobody’s business, alright? Nobody needs to know.” He hadn't meant to snap back at him so sharply, but there was no taking it back. Marco’s eyes narrowed.

“No, you just don't want anybody to know.” He hissed. “You don't want anyone to find out, ever. That's it, isn't it? Who are you _hiding_ from, Jean? You and I both know we stopped ‘practicing’ a long time ago - hell I never even had anyone to practice for in the first place!” Marco was intimidating, angry. His brows were knit tight and his face was reddened, but more than anything, Jean could see the very evident hurt in his eyes. Marco huffed, narrowing them further. “We’re basically _dating,_ Jean. We have been for a while, now. We do everything boyfriends would do, except _tell_ people.”

“I don't want to tell people.”

“Right,” Marco gritted out, reaching for his clothes. He dressed quickly, tugging his clothes on roughly without leaving the bed, staring at Jean the entire time. “You just want the relationship, and everything that comes with it, without dealing with the title. All the benefits, the sex, all that – but none of the stigma. Is that it? You're just too scared to be real about it? Too concerned with what other people might think?”

“Of course I’m scared, Marco. Because I'm not fucking stupid! Do you know what people say and _do_ to guys that like other guys? Once you get that label, that's it. I don't want people saying I'm gay or bisexual or whatever.”

“Then what do you think you are?!” Marco roared, almost laughing. “You and I--”

“I'm not saying I'm not, I just don't wanna label it. It's just a… _thing._ A little thing, for right now. It doesn't need a--”

“A _little_ thing?! For right _now?!”_ Marco squeaked _._ “Jean, we had sex! We _made love._ Repeatedly! You told me you _loved_ me!”

“I _lied!”_ Jean screamed. He words felt like they took all the air in his lungs with them as they left his mouth, leaving him dizzy. Marco just stared, eyes wide, mouth falling open.

“Alright. Fine.” He said, after a moment of trying but failing to form a response. “You don't have to lie anymore, Jean.” He headed for the door; Jean reached after him.

“Marco, hang on. Wait – _Marco!”_

But Marco didn't so much as slow his steps. Dragging a hand roughly over his eyes, he did what he could to bite back a sob, but seemed dead set against letting Jean see the way it was twisting his face. He was down the rest of the staircase and heading out the door before Jean could so much as take a breath, slamming it closed behind him as he left. With nothing left to say – and no one around to hear it, even if he did – Jean stared at the door for a long moment before finally giving up, and stomping back up to his bedroom.

With a lonely evening ahead of him and school the next morning, Jean knew he was in for a rough night. He would find no pity from his mother if he asked to stay home the next morning, especially since he'd have no honest answer as to why he couldn't face the day in class. He kept his anger, his sadness and his pain to himself, muffling them all as he cried into a pillow that still smelled just like Marco.

\--

It was true that Jean and Marco hadn't really ever been dating. Not exactly, anyway. Sure, some days it felt like it, seemed like it in most ways. People assumed they were; everyone in school had begun to suspect, and had their own theories, but that didn't make it so. No one was ever quite sure if they were actually together.

But _everyone_ knew when they broke up.

Marco ignored Jean everywhere, at lunch, in classes, in the hallway, and avoided their shared locker space almost entirely. Kindhearted girls asked if Jean was okay, while guys he had class with made jokes just at the edge of earshot at his expense. Jean tried to play it off to save face, but every cold, unaffected turn away from him by Marco drove the knife deeper.

Jean was sorry, of course. Every time he closed his eyes, to sleep or think or daydream, he imagined himself apologizing, despite the fact that he still hadn't. But more than anything, he was angry. Angry at himself, but just as angry at the people who suddenly seemed to be all around Marco, catching his eye and holding his attention the way Jean used to, and stoking a spark of jealousy into a blaze that soured his stomach and left him glaring at complete strangers.

He envied them. Envied the way Marco smiled and laughed when he was with them in the hallways, envied the time Marco spent with them, and the fact that every single one of the people he was giving all of that attention to were probably better at communicating on a bad day than Jean was at his best. They were probably _good_ to Marco, and he couldn't deny the fact that Marco deserved that. He wondered – worried – about the way they treated him, and if Marco would find something in one of them like what he'd had with Jean. Worse, he feared that Marco would find something _better._

With the year winding down and graduation on the horizon, Jean needed a way to distract himself from the thoughts that were threatening to rip him apart at the seams. At the mention of prom, on posters and the lips of other students everywhere he went, he believed he'd found his chance. But even with all of the ‘practice’ he'd banked, he was still no more prepared to find a date than he had been a year earlier.

Luckily, he did have a few friends, other than Marco. One of them was a bubbly, good time of a girl named Sasha, and when he worked up the nerve to casually mention the upcoming dance – and his lack of a date – to her, she was quick to offer that they go together, taking the weight of asking off of his shoulders, and taking his sigh of relief as an affirmative answer. Connie, another friend of both Sasha and Jean, teased Jean that she'd only asked him out of pity or desperation, but Jean was too relieved to pay him any mind.

Sympathy date, or not, Jean was happy to take it. A date that went nowhere was better than nothing, and any date at all would be better than spending yet another evening at home alone, missing the boyfriend he'd never even had.

\--

Garish, glittering decorations aside, the dance wasn't an altogether unpleasant place for Jean to find himself on a Friday night.

The music was at least halfway current, though hilariously edited for the sake of propriety. The gymnasium was packed with people, enough faces that Jean could get lost among them, though a small part of him wondered and feared that one of those faces would be Marco’s. But in the several hours he was there, Jean never saw Marco. After a while, he stopped thinking to look.

Sasha looked nice. Her dress was short and shiny, pretty on her slender frame. Her hair was tucked neatly into a bun, a single, wispy curl loose beside her bangs. She talked and laughed with Jean the whole night, and it felt good. The attention, the warmth, the closeness – it was everything that he'd been missing in the days before. Or almost everything, anyway.

It was enough for him to smile a few times, enough for him to forget why he'd come, what he was trying not to think about. At least for a little while.

Once the dance floor had begun to empty, and the playlist became mostly ballads aimed at the kissing couples still lingering there, Jean, Sasha, and a handful of their mutual acquaintances and friends left, heading to a party that Jean only barely knew the host of. It didn't matter whose party it was. There would be loud music and free drinks, and something to do, other than sit and think and hate his decisions. So he went.

Connie met them there, and for once, Jean was glad for his insanely loud voice. He clapped Jean hard on the shoulder and led them inside, passing both of them an empty plastic cup before filling them with generous amounts of beer. Even in the brief walk from the front door down to the makeshift bar in the house’s basement, Jean passed at least half a dozen couples, piled in each other's laps and kissing like no one was there to see. It made Jean’s chest ache like something collapsing and hollow, made him long for a familiar pair of arms around him. Jean wasn't a fan of letting himself dwell on his feelings on a good day; that evening he would have done anything to rid himself of the shackles those feelings had fixed on him.

So he drowned them. Within a few minutes of finding a seat, he had emptied his cup, nodding when Sasha offered to refill it for him. When Connie passed around a bottle of whiskey, Jean took it and held it, drinking straight from it. It burnt going down, at first. But soon after that, it stopped. Jean stopped feeling much of anything, at all.

He kept drinking, polishing off an entire fifth, in the hopes that his painful memories would disappear along with the whiskey. They did soften, fading into the background along with his common sense, as he blearily took note of being shuffled into the passenger’s seat of Sasha’s jeep. The ride was all bright lights and loud music and Sasha’s voice as she sang off key between giggles, and the last of Jean’s coherent thoughts, swirling down an intangible drain, leaving him looking through a frosted glass at life playing out in front of him. He sang along to the radio with Sasha, and he couldn't be sure if she was laughing with him, or at him, but it was a pleasant sound, and for just a little while, nothing else mattered.

A few minutes later, he stumbled out of her vehicle, and up several flights of stairs, into a small room in a dark and empty house, identifiable as Sasha’s bedroom only when she briefly flipped on the lights before offering the edge of her bed as a place for him to perch. He flopped down there, vaguely aware of her wriggling out of her bejeweled dress in the periphery of his vision, and then the edges of his awareness began to soften even further. Before long, everything was happily fuzzy, and he didn't even notice the shift as reality melted into dreaming, until he was lying beside Marco, once again, kissing and being kissed, and everything was alright.

\--

That dream sustained him for what felt like forever, but was more likely the span of a few hours, while he slept. When it finally slipped away, it evaporated in the morning light, pouring through a window dressed with broken blinds, allowing the sun to peek through in annoyingly bright rays that prodded Jean rudely awake. He sat up with a sigh, realizing he was no longer in the reality where Marco was lying beside him. But where he was was not only different, it was unfamiliar.

Eyes searching his surroundings, scraps of foggy memories from the evening before flooded his mind. With a pounding headache, he could hardly get a handle on his mind’s eyesight long enough to bring images of the previous day into focus, groaning as he remembered the whiskey, the ride home, and the dress that Sasha had discarded on the floor. A quick glance in that direction confirmed that it was very much a real memory, and definitely still there, where she had left it.

Jean sucked in a hissing breath as he rubbed at his temples, trying to make sense of things. He was nearly naked, in Sasha’s bed, and he had absolutely no clue what had happened the night before. He couldn't remember a time when he was more upset with himself, expect maybe one. The only time he'd done something more foolish than land himself there, half dressed and hungover in a friend’s borrowed bed.

The quiet click of the doorknob turning over was like a gunshot amidst the dull roar of Jean’s tangled thoughts. He pulled the blanket up over himself on reflex, covering himself nearly to the neck as he looked to the door, wide-eyed. When it swung open, Sasha stood in the door frame, dressed comfortably in pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt that hung, on her bony shoulders. She held in her hands a mug, the steam from what was inside curling up to breeze in front of her lips, drawn into a lopsided smirk. With a quiet chuckle, she let herself slump slightly to one side, coming to lean on one shoulder against the open door as she held the mug up and offered it out in Jean’s direction.

“Glad to see you're alive.” She laughed, a little too loudly for Jean’s throbbing head. “Coffee?”

“Sure, I guess.” He took the cup from her and pressed the side to his lips, just letting the warmth of the ceramic mug and the smell of the drink bring him to life a bit more before taking a sip. “What, uh… Last night – what--”

“Well, I can tell you you're a pretty good kisser, even when you're drunk. But things kind of took a nose dive after the first time you called me Marco.”

“Oh, God.” Jean let his head fall into his hands with a pained groan. “God, Sasha, I'm sorry.”

Sasha grimaced sharply. “Don't apologize again, good lord. You did plenty of that last night, too.”

“Might as well run down the list and remind me of all of my obnoxious behavior.” Jean sighed, from behind his fingers. Giving it a moment of thought, he peeked out further from between them and asked carefully, “Did… Did we have sex?”

“No. You weren't in any shape to say yes to something like that. And besides, it seemed like you would much rather have been having sex with Marco.” She snorted with laughter as she said the last few words, but Jean wasn't laughing, and when Sasha noticed his tight expression, hers softened and sobered, right away. She took a seat next to him and patted his blanket-covered leg. “Nah, you took your shirt off to wipe the snot off your face when you finished crying. The pants, I'm not sure about.”

“I'm sorry you got dragged into this,” Jean mumbled, more embarrassed than he could even hide, mostly naked in a classmate’s bed. “It's a really long story, but I don't guess there's much you haven't figured out, by now.”

Sasha shrugged, still smiling. “You definitely talk a lot, when you're drunk.”

“Good to know.” Jean deadpanned. Already exposed, he decided to clarify anything he might have misspoken about, while intoxicated. He laid it all out on the table, as Sasha listened. “Basically, Marco and I had a thing. A good thing. And I fucked it up, because he wanted to tell people, and I was freaked out.”

She nodded. “Sounds like an easy fix, to me. Have you apologized?”

“Haven't even talked to him in ages.” Jean sighed. “He's too busy with literally everyone else in school; I can't even get near him.” He clenched the blankets in his fists, squeezing. “Somebody is probably already treatin’ him better than I knew how to, and it's my fault.” Remembering where he was, he shook his head. “Sorry.”

“I'm not the one you need to be apologizing to,” Sasha replied honestly, though there wasn't a hint of malice in her tone. “It's pretty obvious that you need to sort yourself out _before_ you try to fix things with him, and drinking yourself stupid isn't the way to do it.” She clapped him on the leg again, and then rose from the bed, plucking his shirt from the floor and tossing it in his direction. “You need a ride home?”

Jean shook his head. “Nah. I'm gonna walk. Somewhere I need to go, anyway.”

\--

With the brisk wind of late winter cutting against his face and the crunch of three day old snow beneath his feet, Jean trudged home. He'd chosen to walk, wagering that the cold air would do him some good, getting his head straight after a night that was mostly a blur in his mind. He was glad for the fact that it hadn't gone any more wrong than it had, but more than ready for things to start going right.

But he knew that _that_ would have to start with him.

He walked down the street on which Marco’s house was situated, and came to stop at the sign above the intersection there, though no cars were out to give him pause. He wasn't watching the road, anyway. He looked over at the house on the corner, up at the snow-covered tree house nestled in the branches of the big, old oak tree there in the yard, beside it. He thought of the memories made in that treehouse, old and new. He thought of Marco, and everything he'd had with him.

One of the aged wooden boards of the treehouse roof cracked in the silence of the snowy day and gave way beneath the weight of the snow, bowing slightly. It reminded Jean sharply of the way the sweet nostalgia of that little clubhouse had given way to a bitterness, colder than the wind against his face. Everything those four wooden walls and their owner had given him was broken, too. As good as trashed.

With a pang of guilt, he sucked in a painfully cold breath at the thought; he'd been the one to trash it.

He hadn't merely thrown away a relationship – one he was too frightened to even admit existed, in the first place – or a partner. He'd thrown away a lifelong friendship, one that had blossomed into the first real love he'd ever felt for someone. And he'd thrown it away for little more the a salve for his stinging pride.

It was entirely on him, much as he hated the realization as it weighed down on him like the heavy blanket of snow that covered the ground. He needed to apologize.

Taking one last, lingering look at the treehouse, he heaved a sigh and broke through the cloud his breath made in the air in front of him, heading home to figure out how to do just that.

\--

That Monday, Jean waited until the late afternoon to make his move, spending all day trying to bolster his own courage, with only the occasional thumbs up from Sasha in the hallway for assistance. When the bell for the second to last class of the day rang, he knew he was nearly out of time, if he wanted to avoid another sleepless night. Perhaps he couldn't fix things; perhaps it was too late. But he couldn't make it through another day of wishing and wondering.

He knew which class Marco would be getting out of, although it was one that they didn't share. The break between fifth and sixth periods was the longest bell break of the day, giving him more than enough time to make it halfway across the building to where he needed to be. He waited there, against the wall, looking for Marco as students filed out of the classroom.

When Marco emerged from the door, he locked eyes with Jean immediately, initially startled as he processed seeing him there, obviously waiting on him. But as soon as he'd taken note of him standing there, Marco drew his eyes down into a hard scowl, turning away as pointedly as possible, and heading in the other direction. Jean groaned under his breath. Marco wasn't gong to make this easy on him.

“Marco. Marco, wait!” Jean called, following him down the hall, when Marco refused to even look his way. “Marco, _talk_ to me!”

_“Why?!”_ Marco demanded, finally turning back toward Jean with a snap. “You honestly think I'm gonna wander off somewhere with you and talk? Alone? After everything?” 

“Fine,” Jean barked. “It doesn't have to be alone. It can be right here. I don't give a shit, anymore. Just let me talk to you. Please.”

Turning to face him fully, Marco propped himself against a nearby wall, arms cross defensively. He trained his full attention on Jean, though, and made sure Jean knew it. “I'm listening.”

“I'm here to apologize.” Jean said firmly, determined not to back down, or back out. “And I know you don't have to give me any of your time to hear it, but I just really need to say it. I owe you that much, Marco – I owe you a shit ton more than that, and I'll never be able to give you what you really deserve. You deserve all that time we spent together back, you deserve the months you wasted on my ass back, because I definitely didn't deserve two seconds of you. I was stupid and selfish and just fucking _wrong,_ and I shouldn't have lied to everyone and lied to you. The one thing I didn't lie about was bein’ in love with you.”

Marco shook his head, lip beginning to quiver. But the look on his face still spoke of rage, more than sorrow. “You told me _yourself_ that that was a lie.”

“It wasn't. I was just scared. I'm _still_ fucking scared, but I don't care, anymore. I really _did_ love you, Marco. And I still do. And if you would give me just another day of your time, I swear I can do whatever it is you need from me. I'll hold your hand and kiss you in the damned hallway until we get detention, and wear a fuckin’ t-shirt that says ‘Marco Bodt’s Gay-Ass Boyfriend’ on it, if that's what you want, I promise you. Just... I'm sorry I messed up, Marco. I'm really, really sorry.”

Once it was all out, hanging in the air between them, Jean’s chest heaved. Though he was relieved to be rid of the cork he'd put on his thoughts and feelings for so long, he felt dangerously bare, vulnerable as he waited to see what exposing himself to the core would bring. Marco didn't have to take him back, or even listen to him, but Jean hoped against all practicality that he might. And he wasn't left to sway in the wind for long; Marco sniffled loudly, bring Jean’s focus sharply back to the moment at hand before he launched himself forward, pulling Jean in for a tight and tearful hug.

Jean didn't pull away. He didn't complain. He did nothing but slip arms around Marco’s waist, then down over his backside, as much as he could get away with in the halls of their school. Best not to push their luck any further, as much as he'd already drawn the attention of other students with his impassioned apology speech. He hooked fingers in Marco’s back pockets and hummed happily against his cheek, and then his lips, laughter bubbling between them as they parted for a moment to look at each other, before diving back in for more kisses.

Jean knew people could see them. He knew people were watching, and he couldn't bring himself to care. He kissed Marco back with everything that was in him, every desperation and every ounce of need that had kept him awake for hours on end, every night since they'd parted. Murmuring love against his lips, he thanked him, but Marco wouldn't hear it. He only kissed him again, drinking in his soft sighs as he looped his arms around Jean’s neck.

“Sorry.” Marco said, when they finally parted long enough to speak. They were definitely going to be late to class, but neither of them cared. Jean couldn't even think of what Marco might have been apologizing for, but he shook his head fiercely to dismiss it.

“Don't be. Seriously.” He insisted, ducking in for another quick kiss, his heart fluttering at just how much they were pushing the limits, kissing in a busy hallway. Instead of a panic, though, it felt like a rush. One he was looking forward to the chance to chase. “Missed you so much.”

“Missed you, too.” Biting his lip to keep back a widening grin, Marco swayed back and forth on his feet, an action Jean could have almost sighed aloud over, it was so damned cute. “Walk me to class?” He asked. Jean nodded.

“Only if I can carry your shit for you, too.”

Marco chuckled. “So romantic, Jean.”

“Gimme a break, I'm new at this.”

They headed down the hallway, mindless of the sideways glances and outright stares, Jean’s hand locked happily with that of his boyfriend.

\--

“Jean, Jean baby, say it again, say it again, _please!”_

“I love you,” Jean growled, his smile evident even in the rough edges of his voice, “I fuckin’ _love_ you Marco, love you so fucking much.” He dragged blunt nails up Marco’s thigh until he could dig them into the bare softness of his hip, holding him in place as he thrust into him harder, willing himself not to come until he'd made his boyfriend see stars first. “You gonna come for me, sweetheart?”

That was all it took, a sugar coated pet name falling from Jean’s lips amidst his promises of love and softly muttered swears that sounded more like praises. Marco nodded furiously as he clamped fingers down onto Jean’s wrists, body tensing as he lost himself, taking Jean over the edge with him a moment later.

Lovemaking had become just that, painted with breathy oaths of devotion and ending in the carefree cuddles they were both finally honest about craving. Easing Marco out of his lap and down onto the bed beside him, Jean peppered his skin with kisses, smiling as Marco laughed at the way his lips tickled his skin. It was beautiful and sweet and all the things Jean had been terrified to want before, but that he couldn't imagine living without, once he'd had them. Once he'd had Marco.

No longer quieted by fear into feigning his feelings, Jean was free to be honest with him, and discovered a side of himself he had never known. Marco brought out the romantic in him, to be sure, but also encouraged Jean to bare his soul in ways he'd never wanted to with anyone else; Marco was a safe place, as he had always been. It had taken Jean a while to realize that that safety was good soil for the roots of love to grow in, but once he knew how firmly grounded he'd become in the best friend who had become his boyfriend, there was no stopping the growth of the two of them, closer together, tightly intertwined, stronger than they were apart.

Jean spoke his mind. He said what he was thinking, and how he was feeling. And things were better, for it. Having no one left to lie to – least of all, himself – he was free to enjoy life with his favorite person in it.

Sex was much better in their _own_ bed, in a room they shared, all the time. Telling everyone that they were moving in together for college in several senses of the word had been a little daunting, but not an insurmountable task. And the payoff was more than worth it. Because for Jean, nothing was better than holding his beautiful, breathless boyfriend after they made love, and listening to his name on Marco’s lips, punctuated by contented sighs, right before they fell asleep right next to one another.

It was the life Jean had wanted, all along.

It was what he had been practicing for.


End file.
